


The Song Stuck in my Head

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, M/M, McLennon, Possible out of character portrayal as we don't know much about James and Sean, References to Drugs, References to Rehab, References to unfaithfulness, Sexual Content, very dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-01-09 12:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: “What’s up, man?” Sean asked, yawning and sitting up in bed. He switched on the lamp and blinked owlishly, pawing at the nightstand blindly until he found his glasses.“They gave me one call,” James said in a strained voice. “And I chose you.”Sean and James examine their fathers' relationship and their own.





	1. Sean

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to start out by reminding everyone that this is a work of fiction. This story doesn't represent any actual belief of mine about the relationship between Sean and James.  
> I have nothing but respect for them.  
> This is me trying out different points of view and experimenting with characterisation.

"Sean?"

"Yeah?" he answered before he could place the voice. 

For one brief absurd moment, when he heard the British accent, he thought it was Julian. His next thought was even more absurd.

"Paul?"

There was a bitter laugh on the other end. 

"Not quite."

It was James, who, in fact, sounded nothing like his father. He didn't know how he could have confused them. Perhaps because he'd been dreaming of The Beatles.

Sean had been dreaming of The Beatles. The noise and the stench of tightly packed bodies, the lights, the flash of a thousand cameras. The hum that pervaded the air. When he dreamed of the Beatles he never heard music. All he heard was voices raised to create a deafening roar. Aside from the obvious, he never quite knew what to think of dreams of the Beatles. Particularly because it wasn’t his father he searched for on the stage. It was Paul. 

“What’s up, man?” Sean asked, yawning and sitting up in bed. He switched on the lamp and blinked owlishly, pawing at the nightstand blindly until he found his glasses.

“They gave me one call,” James said in a strained voice. “And I chose you.”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Were you arrested?” He had a million other questions but he forced himself not to ask them. James was complex. He tended to pull away instantly when he felt uncomfortable, which was almost always. And then Sean would have to spend ages luring him back like a horse-whisperer with a sugar cube balanced in the palm of his hand. 

“I’m in rehab. In Arizona.”

“Shit, man,” Sean breathed.

"No," James said quickly. "It's good. It's fine. I need to be here."

Stella had told him James had been doing ketamine. He’d felt a wave of sadness for the man who wasn't quite his brother, wasn't quite his friend. 

"It's not heroin. At least there's that," Stella had said.

He hadn't been sure if that had been intended as an underhanded McCartney jibe. Heroin was a Lennon thing. Ono. Ono Lennon. 

Then she'd sighed and added: "Let's be honest though, Sean. It's not as though he hasn't been smoking pot since childhood. That's on Dad and Mum." 

He'd wisely remained silent. He got that from his mother. John would have rubbed it in.

"I'm glad you're getting help," Sean said at last. It sounded so phony he felt like punching himself in the face.

"You talked with Stella. Figures, she thinks she's taking Mum's place as matriarch," James said sullenly.

"How do you know it wasn't…?"

"He doesn't have time to chat with you. He's too busy divorcing Peg Leg."

Sean felt a titter of mirth escape him against his will. James laughed along - a bitter, empty laugh. He had an air of melancholy like a character in a Russian novel. Sean couldn't remember ever seeing James truly carefree.

"Why did you call me, James?" Sean asked, trying to steer the conversation. James had a tendency to dither otherwise.

"When I... um… when I was on K... I saw your dad."

Sean waited for James to get to the point. It wouldn't do to rush him or he'd close up like those plants that collapsed in on themselves if you touched them. 

"I think it was a memory of the Dakota… um...John… he held me in his arms. I think I was about two? Maybe three? My dad put me in his arms. And he laughed and said: ‘Look at this little angel.’ He rubbed his nose against my hair. And then...Sean. Dad leaned over me. And I swear to you..."

Sean put the phone down for a moment. He could still hear James’ voice on the other end, tinny and desperate. He couldn't get sucked back into this again. Not again.

"Are you still there? Sean? He kissed him. On the lips. And John kissed him back."

"You can't possibly remember that. No way. You were a baby."

"I was high. It felt real, Sean. I know it was."

"You were high, alright. Leave it alone, Car."

He could almost see James flinch at the nickname from his school days.

"So I started digging a bit… um... It's all a mess anyway, with Heather and the baby. And I..."

"Please," Sean said, swinging out of bed and pulling on his discarded jeans. "Nothing happened. It's just insane fan stuff. Just a bunch of people with too much time on their hands writing soap opera scenarios."

"What do you know about it? Come on, Seanie..." he drew out the name mockingly. There was a nasty streak in James, he reminded him of John. They had been born to the wrong fathers. "Come here, so I can show you."

"Arizona?" he laughed.

"Or I'll take it to the press. Fuck both our dads... Fuck them,” James said hoarsely.

He wasn't sure if James was joking or not. He'd never heard him make a joke before. It was better not to risk it, though. Imagine, if he really leaked whatever it was he had. Mum would burst a blood vessel.

Sean kept thinking of what James said all the way to the airport. Paul placing him in Dad's arms. Dad kissing the crown of James' head.

"What an angel!" Dad had said.

Then Paul had leaned forward. There had been a pause. A moment fraught with expectation and then Paul had put his hand on the back of Dad's neck, grasped the hair at the nape of his neck reflexively. Dad had laughed. 

"Naughty."

Then Paul had kissed him. He’d kissed him on the mouth. The way they did on TV. The way Mum and Dad sometimes did when they thought people were watching. He’d kissed him for a very long time with James in between them, wriggling in Dad's arms. 

Sean had retreated further behind the white curtain. He'd only wanted to show James his new toys. That's all. He hadn't meant to spy.

He got on the first plane to Arizona and took a cab to the treatment centre. It all felt so illicit. He wondered, not for the first time, what would have been different if his father had been to rehab. If he'd received the help he so clearly needed. Mum always made sure to mention that the times had been different, but it was more than that. He was reluctant to see the worst in his mum. She was all he had. 

They let him in to see James. There were rules, of course. But there were also other patients at rehab, more important than Beatle children, and Sean had cash.

James looked terrible. Puffy, so pale he was translucent. His skin was bad. His hair lank. His fingernails were bitten to the quick. When he saw Sean a strange expression crossed his face. He pulled him into a tight embrace. Sean smelled sweat and fabric softener and that odd musty smell he associated with England. 

"Fuck you," James whispered into his hair. "Fuck you. Fuck you, Lennon."

Sean realised that was James expressing his happiness and gratitude. It felt strange to touch him again. To be touched. He felt the man's hand on his back, grabbing a fistful of t-shirt. 

"I don't have any drugs on me. Sorry, man," Sean said with a laugh. He started to pull away but James held on tight.

"Come on. I'll show you what I have," James said, releasing him at last.

"I've seen it," Sean quipped.

There was an awkward pause and then James laughed. Short stabs of laughter like a machine gun blast. He was wound too tight, like a guitar that was tuned wrong, and the laughter sounded like sobbing.

He walked at a clipped pace and Sean hurried along after him feeling like an idiot.

"What are you showing me, Car? What did you find? I seriously can't believe if there was any proof... not that I'm saying there is anything to prove... If there was any proof I doubt your dad would just leave it lying around."

When they shut the door behind them, James reached into his guitar case and pulled out a square of paper.

"Lyrics."

Sean took the paper from him and unfolded it. It was Paul's handwriting as far as he could tell. Well, it wasn't Dad's anyway. 

 

_I give him all my love_

_That's all I do_

_And if you saw my love_

_You'd love him too_

_I love him_

  


_He gives me everything_

_And tenderly_

_The kiss my lover brings_

_He brings to me_

_And I love him_

  


_A love like ours_

_Could never die_

_As long as I_

_Have you near me_

  


_Bright are the stars that shine_

_Dark is the sky_

_I know this love of mine_

_Will never die_

_And I love him._

  


Sean sat down on the edge of James' hospital regulation bed and read the paper twice, while James hulked over him, then folded it in half. Sean could feel the red flaming in his cheeks. 

"This still doesn't prove anything. It just means... he could have written it for someone else originally. He wrote songs for other singers all the time, for women, or- " Sean began.

"- or my dad's a queer," James finished. "Yes, I knew you'd say that. Which is why I brought this."

He handed Sean an envelope that was covered in John Lennon's familiar scrawl. On the back of the envelope were a few small printed lines:

_I thought you might need this back._

_I didn't need it anymore._

_J._

The envelope was postmarked Marylebone, London. Sean could just about make out the date: June, 1968. 

"Ringo's flat in Montagu Square. Where he and your mum recorded _Two Virgins_. It was in that envelope."

Sean's brain was scrambling for excuses, he pushed the envelope back into James' hands. 

"Why are you fighting this?" James asked. "What else do you need?"

Sean didn't answer, he just looked down at the floor. It was carpeted, faux seventies orange and brown. He struggled to find the right words. 

"It's not a game, Car. It's not just sleuthing around finding out their secrets. This... if there's any truth to this, there's a reason it's not common knowledge. They didn't want anyone to know. This is my dad's legacy we're talking. Your dad's reputation."

James sat down on the bed beside him, twisting the envelope between his fingers.

"It's 2006. You think people will care? Besides... what if it was common knowledge?"

Sean took the paper from him again, ran his fingers over the words his dad had written. 

"What if it was common knowledge, Sean?" James didn't sound angry anymore. There was a note in his voice Sean couldn't interpret.

"What are you saying? What else did you find?" 

James shrugged. 

"Car..." Sean warned him.

"Even before the vision. Before I found the letter... when I was a kid... you know we went everywhere with them. In hotels on tour, in the studio. There were always people around. Giving you presents, telling you things you weren't ready to hear."

Sean nodded. 

  


_Jap bitch, needs a dildo to get him off._

_At least Paul was one of ours._

_No one ever gave it to him like McCartney._

_Some men like guys you know, Sean. Like Sam. And your dad. He wouldn't say no to a fresh-faced boy._

_What would have happened to you and your mom, Seanie? If Daddy had gone back to Uncle Paul?_

  


That last one had always bothered him. Because he supposed the guy, some sound technician, could have been talking about The Beatles. Then why did he feel a chill whenever he thought of the way the man had grinned at him?

He had been aware, from an early age, that people made stories up because they were jealous, because they were miserable and wanted everyone to be miserable. He trained himself not to take those words to heart. He never told Yoko about them. She had enough to worry about. He'd never really thought about the fact that James had been to public school. He was in with the plebs. They probably skewered him.

"What sort of things?" Sean asked, even though he already knew.

"They used to call him John's widow. That one I heard all the time. Even in front of Mum. And Heather- our Heather- said they used to call him John's princess. At Apple back in the Beatle days. He was stoned for over a year after your dad was killed. I don't think I realised it until I started using. He was always off his head."

"In front of Linda?"

James nodded. Sean thought of something his mum always said about the McCartneys. 

"It's not all roses. That Paul is a PR man."

If she was in a certain mood she would admit that John had been a violent man. In the same breath she would say that John and Paul were mirror images of each other. Only Paul was better at hiding it.

"When I was at school this woman stopped me on the street, she told me she'd been the world's biggest Beatles fan as a girl. She loved the way John and Paul used to look at each other. That was true love. When they broke up she cut off all her hair."

"A fan, Car..."

"She was fifty if she was a day! And it wasn't like that. You should have seen the tears in her eyes. I started seeing it everywhere."

The footage. The photos. Hundreds of them. Looking... gazing at each other. He'd seen photos of Mum and Dad when they first met, they had looked like two people in love, he supposed. But not like when Dad looked at Paul.

“Seeing it?”

“The photos of them. Even the ones my mum took. The films. Do you know Dad has a photo of John hanging on the wall?” James’ eyes were very wide, very dark. He had the look of his father but pale and soft all over.

“So, what?” Sean asked. He wasn't sure why he was fighting it. He just knew he had to.

“So he's asleep. In bed.”

Sean stared at him. He was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting on the bed. James’ shoulder was pressed against his, their knees were touching, too. He wondered if James remembered that party. If he ever thought of him like that.

“Is he naked?” Sean asked at last.

“What?”

“My dad. In the photograph. Is he naked? Not that it would make much difference. He wasn't shy about being nude.”

“The sheets were pulled up to his chin. It was a very personal photograph, Sean. All the photos of your dad and that's the one he had framed,” James sounded desperate. His cheeks were flushed. 

“Why is this so important to you?” Sean asked. 

"Why are you arguing with me?"

"Because it's just speculation. We don't know anything! Those lyrics..." 

"You're not serious... that's what I found and I wasn't even trying. What did your dad have lying around? Yoko can't have auctioned it all off.” 

“Fuck!” Sean exclaimed, jumping to his feet at once. He was fuming, frozen in indecision. He considered punching James or running from the room and taking the next plane back home. But Sean wasn't a violent man, not prone to outbursts. He wasn't his father.

James reached over and grabbed his arm, pulled him back down to the bed before he could do anything else.

“I wasn't having a go at...um...I wasn't having a go at your mum. It just stands to reason she might… um…”

“You leave her out of this! It's… leave her alone!” Sean started to get up again, he didn't care if James did try to get someone to leak those lyrics. The lawyers would demolish him anyway. Not to mention Paul.

Sean was surprised at how much it hurt. He'd thought James was different than all those vultures out there blaming her for everything wrong in the world. He didn't know why he was so surprised. He didn't really know James. Paul had once said he and John had been army buddies. They'd been in the wars together. That's how he felt about James. They were Beatle kids. They were stuck with each other but he didn't know if he even liked him.

James was still holding on to his arm, his fingers flexing against the sleeve of Sean’s hoodie. Sean shook his hand off his arm impatiently.

“This was a mistake.” Sean stood up and took a step towards the door. James was close behind him. 

“Sean! Just… Sean! Calm down!” James said. He bridged the gap between them and reached forward to grasp Sean's shoulder, spun him around. Sean couldn't recall ever seeing the man this charged. He came off so placid so much of the time. Sedated.

Sean took a step forward and then one back, like they were dancing. James still had his hand on Sean's shoulder, emotions flitted across his face. His soft lips were parted as if he was trying to get words out. Words stuck somewhere inside him. He looked like a watered-down version of Paul. And then James kissed him. He just mashed his lips against Sean's and Sean couldn't think. Couldn't move. 

They'd kissed before. Over ten years ago at some party. Or rather. Sean had kissed him. More than kissed. He'd been smoking weed all night. Drinking vodka shots. James had been on something, too. Linda had recently passed away. He'd run into him in the cloakroom while looking for his date’s coat. Sean had just released his first album. He’d told James as they shared a blunt, that he was sick of reading about himself in the papers. John Lennon's spoiled brat son. Sick of people telling him he was crazy for getting into music. 

“There's no getting into about it,” James had said. “This is all we know.” 

He'd been overwhelmed by a sense of closeness. A kind of familiarity. He'd been haunted by his father's spirit. Like Hamlet. They'd been lying on the ground under the coats. He'd put his hand on James’ waist and drawn him in. He remembered the look of surprise on his round face, the flash of fear in his eyes. Was this it, Sean had wondered? Was this what John had felt when he touched Paul? A spark of lust deep in his gut. Something like panic in his chest. James had pushed him away and then seemed to change his mind. He’d leaned into Sean. And Sean had covered his mouth with his own.

Sean had kissed boys before, at school. But this had been different. Kissing James hadn't felt the way he'd imagined it would. It was nothing like kissing Stella. They'd tried that once as kids and then laughed about it. There had been a kind of incestuousness to it, with Stella. Years later, when he'd dated Lizzie Jagger, it had felt similar. Kissing James was like gazing into the calm eye of the storm. Like everything was falling apart, like the end of the world. Like James was the only fixed point. The only thing he could hold on to. This is what John and Paul must have felt.

He'd wanted more. At once. He hadn't been able to stop himself. How far had they gone? Who had started it? John? Or Paul? When had they done it? The whole thing with his dad was so sordid anyway. Sean had to share everything with the world. No part of John Lennon was his alone, so it stood to reason that no part of John Lennon be kept from him. Not even this. He'd pressed a hand to the front of James’ jeans, felt him swell against his palm. James had laughed nervously. 

“Yes?” he’d asked him. “Or no?”

“Well… yes… apparently,” James had said.

He'd pushed James further in among the coats and opened his fly. He’d kept on imagining them, John and Paul. Not wanting to admit how fucked up that was. He’d been so excited he couldn't even grip James’ dick properly. Sean had stroked him hard and fast, his lips pressed against his neck, his own breath shallow and rapid. James had put his hand over Sean's.

“Slower.”

He'd been so turned on by that gentle instruction he’d had to wait a moment before continuing. James had had his eyes wide open, staring at Sean so intensely he could barely look at him. He'd come, his breath rasping in Sean's ear, quivering all over. When it was over he'd wiped his hand off on someone's coat and handed James his handkerchief. It had been one of his dad's. A plain white cotton thing monogrammed JWL. The sight of James using it to wipe off his dick almost made him come in his pants. 

James kissed him hard, his hands coming up to grip his hair. Sean realised he'd been waiting for this. He had known it would happen when he bought that plane ticket. He slid his hands down James’ back, trying to interpret his own feelings. A lot had changed in ten years. Sean wasn't the same man. 

“I'm sorry… for… I'm sorry…” James stuttered. 

“I thought…” 

James shook his head. He pulled Sean back to the bed and Sean lay down. For a while James just looked at him, like he was uncertain if this was an invitation or not. Then he lay down beside Sean, there was just enough room in the bed for the two of them.

“I thought you forgot about that,” Sean said.

“Of course I didn't. It took me ages to get over it. It made me question myself. Question my...yeah."

"Yeah," Sean said. He couldn't tell if James was accusing him of something. Because it hadn't been like that at all. He hadn't forced him. He remembered the way James had leaned into him bonelessly, his mouth flush against his. His colourless eyelashes fluttering like moth's wings. 

"I couldn't get it out of my head...like a melody...like..." James said again.

"Yesterday," Sean said.

"Imagine," James said. 

And then they laughed. 

"But it doesn't mean... I'm not saying it was like being in love or anything," James said.

"Sure. Yes," Sean agreed. You still called me though, he thought. Not Paul, not Stella. Me. 

"Do you think they were? In love?" James asked. He turned in bed, his knees came between Sean's.

“I… it's not…” 

“I know you know more, Sean. You're just pretending not to believe it. But you know things about them.” 

James put his hand on Sean's stomach. He felt a stab of lust, against his will.

“I saw them,” Sean admitted at last. He pulled James closer, ran a hand down his side. “Your hallucination. That really happened. I was there. It was the year he was killed. I saw them kiss, Car. He… Paul said… ‘I'm going out of my mind.’ Dad made a joke about Paul being crazy or something. Then he said: ‘Not here.’”

James pulled away, startled. “You knew? You…” he said in a small, high-pitched voice.

“I knew that. And some other stuff. Gossip mostly. Online. In chatrooms. But that doesn't mean… what difference does it make?”

“I want to know,” James insisted. “I deserve to know. Because if that memory is real and it was 1980 then it was still going on. Or they had just renewed it.”

Sean sucked in his breath. How stupid he'd been. How simple-minded. He hadn't considered that. He'd never bothered to follow the thought to its natural conclusion.

“Yeah. Didn't think of that part, did you? There's a rumour ‘Starting Over’ was about my dad-”

“I know…” Sean said.

“Do you think they were in love?” James asked again.

“Yeah,” Sean admitted. “Yeah. Yes. Yes, I do.”

“This is our story, too, Sean. Like it was theirs. We were all caught up in it...you know? The whole fucking world. I just want to know for sure.”

Why don't you ask him? Sean thought. Just ask him for the truth. Don't you think I'd ask mine if I could?

James took his hand in his like he was proposing marriage. “Say you'll go with me. We can just check. Just check and if we don't find anything… then we leave it alone.” 

“Okay,” Sean said. “We just look through his stuff. What's left of it. And if we don't find anything…” 

James leaned in and kissed him quick to seal the deal. They were going back to the scene of the crime. Back to the Dakota.


	2. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'They didn't have to speak. Somehow they both knew this was it. This was what they had come here for.'
> 
> James and Sean continue their quest to uncover the nature of their fathers' relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of fiction.  
> It doesn't represent the truth about Sean or James, John or Paul. I don't know any of these people personally.  
> I'm experimenting with characterisation.  
> IN NO WAY DOES IN REPRESENT MY OPINION OF PAUL MCCARTNEY.  
> Also. Be aware that the narrative is coloured by the unreliable point of view of the narrator. It reflects the narrator's feelings and not necessarily the truth.  
> Thank you!

James had spent his childhood in aeroplanes. By the time he was two he'd spent more time in the air than off the ground. He'd never exactly been thrilled by the prospect of flying. It was a means to an end. By contrast, Sean seemed happy to fly. He even took off his shoes and slipped on a pair of fuzzy socks. He had flying socks, for fuck's sake. He was settled in comfortably, flicking through a magazine with a blanket around his knees. James was still clutching his jacket as though he was afraid it might be stolen. A flight attendant took it from him and stored it in the overhead compartment. 

“Mucca tells all,” Sean read out loud. “Sir Paul's dark sex secrets. Soon-to-be-ex-wife spills beans.”

He tilted the magazine so that James could see the photograph of Heather Mills and Paul on their wedding day. James laughed nervously, held onto his knees.

“Wait… what's this… Sir Paul's decades long passion for songwriting partner Lennon…” 

James glared at him and turned away to catch the flight attendant’s attention.

“Okay. Yeah. Not funny. I know,” Sean laughed.

James ignored him and ordered a vodka tonic.

“I'll have a rum and coke,” Sean said.

James couldn't help but stare at him. 

“Well. Might as well. That's what they drank I heard.” He shrugged and leaned over James to take his drink.

James could smell his conditioner. Something with cocoa butter. He wanted to bury his nose in Sean's dark hair and inhale deep. Sean sat straight and set his drink down on the plastic tray-table.

“Your face, Car,” he shook his head. “You change your mind about finding proof?”

“No… I… just feel strange about leaving like this. Mum died in Arizona. I…”

Sean nodded sympathetically and tapped his plastic cup against James’. He wanted to say something biting and then he remembered: Sean was one of the only people he knew who could understand. 

“I feel like I failed her,” James confessed.

Mum had died in Arizona, she'd been fifty-six. Mum had been the only one who truly understood him. The only one who had seen something worthwhile in him. That's why he'd chosen Arizona to get clean so he could be near her.

“Sorry,” Sean said softly. 

Dad used to say John wasn't a big one for apologies. When it came to sorry he was tighter than a nun’s cunny. When Dad told that story, with that smile of his, it sounded so innocuous. Dad wasn't big on sorry, either. Sean was always apologising. So was James. Apologising they'd dared to be born to fathers like theirs.

“This is important, too,” James said and swallowed half his drink. 

“Slow down there, partner.” 

Sean pronounced it like he was someone from the Wild Wild West. 

“I'm not a big guy. I won't be able to carry you.”

The corner of James’ mouth twitched. He admired Sean, he really did. He thought Sean could do anything he set his mind to. James fell silent then, because everything he considered talking about seemed so stale and pointless. He wasn't known for his brilliant conversation. 

“Seats upright and seat belts fastened,” an older flight attendant with a southern accent reminded them. She leaned across James to help Sean with his seat. He froze awkwardly while Sean flashed her a million dollar smile. 

“When I was really little and my dad was alive he used to have this little… well, it was a good night ritual,” Sean said when the woman had moved on to the next row.

James watched Sean as he told the story, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of John.

“The ceiling of my room was painted like the sky. And I had this mobile, with aeroplanes. He'd make it turn. And he'd do all these, you know, plane sounds… it was like magic.” 

“You loved him,” James said in an oddly accusing manner. 

Sean stared at him, his eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Of course. He was my whole world for a while there.”

James finished the last of his drink. “Must have been nice,” he said bitterly. He thought of his own father, how he was in turns affectionate and neglectful. How, from the start, he'd been overly critical of his only son. 

“It was awful,” Sean replied. “Being John Lennon's son. Is awful. He was… Who could ever live up to him?”

James looked at him in surprise. That was exactly how he felt. But John had always seemed more human to him. Dad was larger than life, even in his own house. At least to James he was.

“Don't get me wrong…” Sean began.

“I don't… I wouldn't,” James said. He slipped his hand under the blanket onto Sean's knee. It was meant to be a reassuring gesture but the look Sean gave him made it clear he had achieved the opposite.

James started to withdraw his hand when Sean stopped him and covered his hand with his own.

“I know you wouldn't,” he said under his breath. 

A wave of longing washed over James. How inconvenient, the story of his life, really. Sean's hand tightened on his own. They were holding hands, that's what they were doing. Two men over thirty, holding hands under the thin acrylic blanket on an aeroplane. James slid his thumb over Sean's knuckles. He wanted to ask him what this was but he was afraid if he did, Sean would pull away.

“When do you think it started?” James asked instead.

Sean looked at him for a long time from behind the frames of his glasses. Under the blanket he grasped James’ hand hard, pressed it against his thigh. James looked around them anxiously but no one was paying attention to them. Everyone was reading or napping or listening to in-flight entertainment.

“I don’t know,” Sean said at last. “I know Dad was very close to Stu. You know... Sutcliffe. I wondered... Mum sometimes made it sound… you know, he died.”

James knew about Stuart. He'd seen that film about The Beatles in Hamburg. He remembered hearing George had been upset about the way he'd been portrayed.

“I'm not even a bit character. They do know it's Lennon-McCartney, don't they? McCartney. I wrote ‘Yesterday’. I taught him how to tune his bloody guitar. I sang ‘Long Tall Sally’. It was never John and Stu. Not like that. Not like it was with me,” Paul had ranted bitterly.

Mum had pointed out the movie was really about Stu and Astrid, and not about The Beatles at all. Not the Ballad of John and Paul. There had been something in her voice. Something hard and punishing. In the end Dad managed to sound magnanimous about it in interviews. He'd praised the actor playing Stu. He still pointed out John had never sung “Long Tall Sally”. He hadn't been able to help himself. That's just the way Dad was. He'd worry at a wound so long until you couldn't take it anymore. No wonder.

“No wonder it didn't last,” James had told him once in anger. “They couldn't stand to listen to you.” 

Dad had raised his hand, brought it up close to James’ face before dropping it abruptly. 

“Get out of my sight.”

That's what he'd said. Get out. James didn't think he really would have hit him but the involuntary motion had cut him to the core. After Mum died he often replayed that conversation in his head over and over, like tonguing a sore in your mouth. And then he'd get high and remind himself this was his legacy. Not the music. Not the charities and veggie stuff. The drugs. The booze. The unspoken resentments. And this: Sean slid James’ hand between his legs, his fingers tightening around his wrist. 

“Fuck,” James breathed.

“No?” Sean mouthed.

“Yes. Yes.” 

He rubbed the heel of his palm against Sean's crotch. He could feel the colour sting in his cheeks. 

“I think it was instant,” he said. His voice wavered, his breath was coming faster. He wanted to pull down Sean's zipper and cram his hand into his jeans right here on the flight from Phoenix to LaGuardia. He wanted Sean's mouth on his, his tongue. James had promised himself if he ever was intimate with Sean again he'd be cool, casually experienced. He wouldn't let on how often he'd thought of this. 

“Instant?” Sean sucked in his breath, mashed James’ hand against his stiff cock. Sean's fingernails cut into his skin. The discomfort was titillating.

“Yeah, when they met. It was instant. I think they knew at once. Dad made it sound like… well, it sounded like…”

“Love. At first sight,” Sean said. The words sounded too loud in James’ ear.

He twisted slightly, his lips fluttering against Sean's neck. He could feel his pulse jump jaggedly against his mouth. The seats were narrow and the arm-rest was caging him in. There were more comfortable places to be intimate but James was delirious with arousal, the strange setting only fed his desire. He wanted to bend down, put his mouth on Sean through the cotton of his boxers. Rest his teeth against Sean's hard prick without biting down. He wanted him to know he could hurt him. He wouldn't. But he could.

“I want to… I want to…” James stuttered. He was frozen. As always when he wanted something a part of him wanted to push it away. He could never trust anything he wanted too much.

“Yeah.”

“But…”

Sean pulled James’ hand up to his mouth, kissed his knuckles.

“Later,” he said softly. 

James shut his eyes. He was grateful and disappointed in equal measure. An elderly lady shambled past followed by a flight attendant carrying her bag. Beside him Sean chuckled softly.

“Close call.”

They took a cab to the Dakota. James tried to conjure up a memory of decades ago when he'd last been inside the building where they had filmed Rosemary's Baby. He had a vague memory of crawling on the floor with Sean and Stella. He remembered Dad sitting there slack-jawed and dead-eyed, holding Mum's hand. Yoko had picked him up and held him on her lap. She'd run her hands through his hair. 

“Such a pretty colour,” she'd cooed. In hindsight he wondered if she'd been high. Her hands had felt good, he recalled. She'd smelled of some rich perfume. James had wrapped her dark hair around his tiny fingers and pulled gently. She hadn't scolded him. 

“John liked to do that,” she said.

Dad had nodded, his eyes fixed on the ground. Looking back, James had no idea how Dad managed to sit through the whole strange event. He and Yoko had disappeared at some point to talk business and had returned with red eyes and grim faces. He'd crawled on the floor with Sean and hadn't really understood what everyone was so upset about.

“James. James, man. Car!” Sean was saying, shattering James’ reverie. “We're here.”

James looked out of the window at the Dakota as Sean paid the driver. It loomed large above them, a sprawling wedding cake of a building. German renaissance. James, used to his family's eccentric salt-of-the-earth ways – Paul had fixed the roof of the farm himself when James was a boy – was rendered dumbstruck and awkward at the sight of its extravagance: the high gables, the terracotta spandrels. The way it stuck out like a sore thumb, no, like a giant middle finger to the whole city.

“Shut your mouth, kid. You look like a bumpkin,” Sean teased him. 

He bet he did at that. 

They went up without much fanfare and Sean pulled out his key and let them in. 

It seemed so much starker than the flat in his memory. Metres and metres of white, so bright it hurt his eyes. It looked like a flat from a magazine. 

“It used to be more cluttered, when Dad was alive,” Sean said. He took James’ hand and pulled him away from the door. 

“She doesn't spend much time here. She has her own nest. This place is like...it's like a crypt.” 

James thought of the farm in Scotland, of Cavendish Avenue. He thought of the dust, the worn carpets, the pet dander. Dad's scarf flung carelessly round the back of a chair, waiting for Mum to collect it and put it away. He remembered wondering if ordinary people lived like that, too, or just the McCartneys.

“Come on. I guess we can start in his office,” Sean said.

“What are we even looking for?” James asked, following Sean gingerly into the office.

He took a quick look around at the thick wall-to-wall carpet, the polished black upright piano, the painting on the wall. It was a portrait of John and Sean. John wore a scruffy tank top, Sean wore a white top and shorts. They looked like they were on holiday. It was a poor rendering. It looked like the work of an amateur.

James sat down at the piano and lifted the fall, he rested his hands on the keys. Sean was standing in front of an ornate armoire, rifling through drawers like he was a burglar. James started to play a tune he was working on. A wisp of a thing. Stella once told him all his stuff kind of sounded the same. He'd never been able to write again without hearing her taunt in his ear.

“That's pretty, Car, but come on. Help me a bit.”

“ _Help me if you can I'm feeling down…”_ James sang.

Sean rolled his eyes. 

James inspected the piano carefully and then the bench.

“I read an interview with Olivia,” James explained. “She said George used to keep stuff in the piano benches. She found a whole sheaf of lyrics he'd just jotted down, then never used.”

They took the whole room apart and then moved to the next room and then the next.  
James had started to feel quite foolish as they opened empty drawers and rifled through wardrobes swathed in plastic, stinking of mothballs. So Yoko hadn't sold or donated everything. James opened his mouth to say as much and then closed it abruptly. Sean thought he was all Zen. So chill. James saw plenty of John in him. And plenty of Yoko. A streak of fire broad as a Paris boulevard. If he said another word about Yoko, Sean might snap.

“Check the pockets. If he was anything like my dad…”

Sean snorted. “They were children. They couldn't even wipe their noses on their own. I found loads of stuff in pockets already. No love letters, though… not from Paul... I doubt he would have been that careless… you know with the staff around, and Mum.”

Eventually they found a shoebox behind a forest of boots, filled to the brim with letters. James started reading them while Sean disappeared. Eventually he returned holding a bottle of vodka. 

“Mum's private stash,” Sean said, opening the bottle and taking a swig before settling down cross-legged on the floor beside James.

“Yoko’s a vodka girl, huh? I'd have figured her for gin.”

“Vodka.” Sean handed James the bottle. “She still thinks you can't smell it.”

James stared at him in silence for a long while.

“Dad drank whiskey,” he admitted.

“Even later? He always made it sound like he saw the light in like ‘71,” Sean said.

“Even later. He's all image,” James said bitterly, taking a gulp from the bottle. “He's nothing like that nice guy in the papers. On the telly.” 

He wasn't really being fair but he didn't care. He could tell Sean admired Dad, idealised him.

“Yeah. Well...I bet he wasn't that asshole who supposedly broke up The Beatles, either.”

James shrugged. 

“Anything good there?” Sean asked, angling his chin at the letter still clutched in James’ hand. 

James shook his head and folded the paper back into the corresponding envelope.

“Mimi. And Cynthia. Mostly stuff about money as far as I can tell. What do you mean he wasn't the guy who broke up the band?” James asked, unfolding the next letter. 

“Just that… Paul got a raw deal. He gets to be compared to my dad for the rest of his life. Gets to be blamed for shit that… it was more complicated than that. It's always Paul or my mum and we all know that's not… Dad died and he never had to face the music,” Sean said. 

James smoothed the paper over his knee. He cleared his throat awkwardly. He had never heard Sean talk like this before, like he didn't even like John.

“Dad knew what he was doing. He pushes people. Pushes until he gets what he wants. He did it to Mum. Chances are he did it to John. He was never happy with me. It was always Stella.”

Sean lay down on the ground and stared up at the ceiling.

“You know, at least you had him. All I had was the legacy. The lies. Everyone reassuring me what a great guy he was or what a jerk. The myth and the man never seemed to add up. You had Paul. He was there for you. If you needed it. And you had Linda, Heather, Mary. Hell, you had Stella.”

James was clinging to the bottle now, taking small constant sips. The booze warmed him through and through and his face was flushed with it. How hideous he must seem to Sean. Pink and puffy, hair thin and unwashed. He felt his stomach squirm with shame and rage.

“They used to bully me in school. Call me a faggot. They'd sing his songs at me. Call him a fag. You think anyone was there for me then? You have no idea...you were always…”

“What? The little prince? John Lennon's little prince?” Sean sneered. He rolled over onto his stomach and propped his head up with one hand, gazed at James through thick black lashes.

“I had to look out for myself. Practically from day one. And you know… if he hadn't been murdered, who knows? Things weren't all roses here. No matter what they said to sell Double Fantasy.”

“Come on, Sean! You had all sorts of people looking out for you, worshipping you. You went to the best schools. You're his heir!” James exclaimed.

James thought of Julian, that chip-on-his-shoulder way he moved through the world. He thought of Julian buying John's things for himself because Yoko refused to give him anything. Dad buying things in secret and sending them to Julian anonymously. Mum's face when she’d find out: weary and disappointed. John Lennon, the magic words. The best way to get Paul McCartney to react to anything.

“Michael Jackson,” Sean said softly. 

When he sat up, James realised how close they were sitting. He looked at Sean in confusion for a moment, his mind full of Beatles song rights and lawyers and Dad shouting into the telephone. Then Sean took off his glasses and James started to have an inkling what he was implying.

“You were friends,” James whispered.

Sean tilted his head to one side.

“I was a kid who liked video games and pranks and candy,” he answered. “He made his life sound like a carnival every day. And I thought that's what real pop stars lived like.”

That's not what it was like, though. That much James knew. Dad in his music room off his head, listening to Beatles songs with his eyes closed for days while Mum told everyone to stay away from him. Dad in bed, curled in fetal position after Linda's death, while James lay beside him humming softly until he slept. It wasn't all balloons and laughter. 

“What was it like?” James asked. 

_What did he do to you?_

He put his hand on Sean's elbow, his fingers digging into his sweatshirt. 

“It wasn't… well...it was not...it's…” Sean stuttered. 

He looked so vulnerable. James had never seen him look like that before. He lacked the bluster John had had. Hell, all the Beatles had had. That self-satisfied, us-against-the-whole-world mentality. Sean had his mother's poker-faced coolness. Stripped of it James could see that nervy little boy who let Jacko tuck him in and feed him banana splits.

“Did he…?”

“It's not even about that,” Sean snapped. “She should have wondered! Who doesn't wonder about something like that? Would he have? Dad? Would he have told me to go? Or would he have protected his _darling boy_? You know, it was right after Michael stole the song rights out from under Paul's feet.”

James did the math. What Sean was implying shocked him to the core. 

“Do you think she… do you think it was some sort of move on her part? Showing solidarity with Jackson?” James asked.

Sean only shrugged. James ran a hand over Sean's dark hair. It was soft as down, finer than it had been when he was a kid. He pressed his forehead to Sean's.

“Are you gonna kiss me now?” Sean asked. There was no flirtatiousness in his tone. 

James pulled away, knotted his hands together and shook his head. He felt ashamed now, foolish, when he'd only meant to comfort the man. He wondered if Sean knew how often he'd thought of him since that first kiss. 

“I'm sorry,” James whispered.

“What for?”

“For… I don't know. I made you come here. I made you look through all this stuff. Dredge up the past,” James said.

“I wanted to. You didn't make me.”

“You said you didn't. I insisted–"

Sean pulled James close, cutting off the rest of his words. For a moment James could only blink at him in confusion and then he felt Sean's mouth on his, his breath escaping in small gasps. James moaned into the kiss, his hands coming up to encircle Sean's upper arms. Sean pulled away, slid his hands under James’ shirt, over his soft stomach. He felt ashamed and aroused, pulled Sean closer so that he lost balance and fell on top of James with a small strangled sound.

He gripped the back of Sean's hoodie, tried to hold him in place but Sean was already pulling away, stripping off the sweater and then his T-shirt. James lay on his back and watched him undress.

“Sean,” James began.

Sean leaned down to unbutton James shirt, his lips fluttering against his collarbone.

“Slow down,” he continued. But Sean had already wrestled off his shirt and was working on his trousers. James froze and let Sean undress him, his face was burning with shame.

He was no longer nineteen. No longer that shy, slim boy with the cloud of hair the colour of butter. He was the worst of both his parents: unlovely, awkward, impatient and inarticulate. Whereas Sean was the best of John and Yoko. He had no idea how he glowed from within. How it was clear almost from the moment of his conception, what a very special person he would be. James was a fourth child, last in line, the genes were so diluted there had been nothing left for him.

“Jesus, James,” Sean gasped.

James couldn't speak, he could only lie back against the scattered letters and photographs and let Sean bend over him and kiss him until his mind went quiet. He was startled at the aggression in Sean's attentions, the single-mindedness with which he touched him. When Sean slid his hands over his skin, James froze, a wave of panic numbed his mind.

“Just… please,” Sean said, a strange desperation in his voice. 

He needed this the way James needed drugs. The way he craved that chemical starburst in his bloodstream. The sweet oblivion, the distraction this provided. Maybe it wasn't about James at all. The way it wasn't really about pot or coke or ketamine. James thought about letting it happen, touching Sean back, letting him take him if that's what he needed. Then he opened his eyes and saw John staring down at him from that ugly portrait. He wondered if he would have been angry, seeing them together like this, or if he'd have understood.

“I can't,” James said softly. 

He felt foolish; he'd wanted this for so long. He'd measured every intimate experience against that encounter in the cloak room. And now he was pushing Sean away. He was pushing him away. Wasn't that just like him? Just like a McCartney? 

James expected Sean to ask him why. Why he couldn't when it was clear he wanted to but instead Sean curled against him and went silent. James thought about getting up to find his clothes but then he realised that Sean had fallen asleep. After a while James shut his eyes and slept, too. 

He dreamed of Dad. The way he tuned his bass, tilted it up to his ear and patiently adjusted each string. The way he pulled an L.P. out of the sleeve and placed it on the turntable, careful not to smudge the vinyl. The careless way he stripped off his coat and flung it aside, toed off his shoes. James dreamed of the way it felt to be lifted up into his strong arms, that feeling of safety. The feeling that no one could ever hurt him as long as he was with Paul.

When he opened his eyes he felt a stab of loss in his gut. Dad was far away in England ensconced in his sordid divorce proceedings. He was even further away in spirit. They hadn't stood on the same ground spiritually for a very, very long time. 

James blinked away tears: half sadness, half fatigue. Sean was pressed against him, still fast asleep, his face pressed into his armpit. He untangled himself from Sean and looked around them. The whole room looked like the scene of a crime. Letters, photos, clothing scattered everywhere. Above them, staring straight ahead with flat, painted eyes sunken in that skeletal face was John Lennon. James dressed quickly, absurdly ashamed as though the dead man was judging him. He had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. A quivering. A sickening shudder of premonition.

As if in a trance, James walked towards the painting and put his hands to either side of the canvas. He lifted it off the hook on the wall and flipped it over. The back of the painting was covered with a layer of brown paper. James ran his hands over the smooth surface. He could feel a thin rectangular shape beneath the paper. He peeled at the right hand corner until he could see the canvas behind it. The rectangular shape was a yellowed, unaddressed envelope. James pried it free and set the painting down on the ground.

“Fuck a pig,” Sean exclaimed behind him under his breath.

They sat down on the piano bench both holding a corner of the envelope. They didn't have to speak. Somehow they both knew this was it. This was what they had come here for. James handed the envelope to Sean and he slid out a black and white photograph.

They were in bed. Someone, Paul probably, had held out the camera and captured the moment on film. They lay back against the stark white pillowcase, their lips pressed together in a serious sort of kiss. A deeply private kiss. There was nothing silly or posed about it. They were clearly at least partially undressed. John had his hand on Paul's bare collarbone, his fingers laying claim to the boy beneath them. The look on Paul's face was one James had never seen before. Not with mum. Certainly not since.

Sean laughed a little, a nervous laugh that reminded him of John. Then he turned the photo over. “John and Paul, Paris 1961”, the inscription said. As if they had any doubts. 

“God,” James whispered. 

He had been expecting some clue. Some small acknowledgement it had really happened. He wasn't expecting this. This piece of them. This proof that would shake the whole world. James wished he could put it back behind the painting. He wished he could unsee what he'd seen. He'd made this happen, made them come here, he'd fought for it. And now that he had what he came for no piece of him wanted a part in it.

“Imagine what would happen if we released this,” Sean said quietly. His voice shook when he said it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only going to be a short fic but research got the better of me and now all at once it has 3 chapters instead of 2! 
> 
> Just in case:
> 
> Mucca is the nickname the press gave Heather Mills.
> 
> I looked into Sean's friendship with Michael Jackson extensively for this chapter. (Googled it like an insane person) Sean's take is nothing happened but he and his friends were aware something was off with the situation. 
> 
> Thank you to Celebratorypenguin for reading and making suggestions!
> 
> Thank you so much as always to Twinka for instinctively knowing what's missing in a story and being so good about betaing. You're the coolest and loveliest.
> 
> Thanks to the beautiful Bakerstreetafternoon who has been so super supportive of this story from day one. To the point of actually writing a piece that ties into it! I'm so amazed and touched. And am so lucky to know you. [ Read her fic here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081815)  
> It's gorgeous and delicate and just really well written. The photograph in this chapter is based on the one described in her fic it's entirely her creation.
> 
> There is one last chapter to tie everything up. I hope I get to it soon.
> 
> Happy holidays everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> This story basically began as a vague 'what if' in my head and ultimately matured into this.
> 
> It started with Coffee-and-classic-rock telling me Sean had a song called 'A Song For James' the lyrics include similarities to A Day In the Life and Good Morning, Good Morning. 
> 
> There was also some vague rumour about Sean Lennon and James McCartney being involved. I started thinking, put the two things together and boom... fic.
> 
> It's different than my other stuff because we know less about the two of them- particularly James. I had to be a little creative when it came to characterisation. Nevertheless I did spend a substantial amount of time watching and reading interviews with both of them as well as listening to their music.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to Coffee-and-classic-rock for the idea, Swaying-daisies for encouraging me- you're my muse- and Single-Pigeon because you're a star.
> 
> Thank you to bakerstreetafternoon for being so supportive about this and providing all sorts of insights. Thank you for suggesting 'And I love her' as the lyrics James discovers. I think the song works really, really well. As well as helping me out with a major plot point that will be important in part 2. I had the most fun inventing that with you. So much of this story is down to you. I adore you.
> 
> And finally: thank you to Twinka for really getting behind this. I love how you get behind all the weird crap I get into my head. You inspire me to be daring. You really get my writing. Thank you. ♡ Thank you ♡ Thank you ♡

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I've Seen You, Beauty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081815) by [bakerstreetafternoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstreetafternoon/pseuds/bakerstreetafternoon)




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